When It Hails
by a perfectly healthy clown
Summary: They aren't happy.


They meet on an autumn night. It is unbearably cold, and the threat of precipitation is heavy in the altostratus clouds overhead. Between the two of them, one sports a bleeding nose, and the other dons an ugly shiner. The color palette for the late evening is an inequality of yellows, reds, purples, and grays. Bloody Nose has a bad cough, and Black Eye provides a sad excuse for a tissue from the inside of his jacket.

"Sh'ank you." Bloody Nose applies the wrinkled napkin to his mouth; and the material is so thin Black Eye can see spittle and mucus coating it, along with the featured bodily fluid of the night (blood, blood, teaspoons of the stuff), but that is a given.

Black Eye cringes. "Ya okay?"

"Obviously not." The retort comes out nasally, as the man has pinched the bridge of his nose. "No need for a trip to A&amp;E, if you're concerned." Bloody Nose's eyes dart downward, taking in the shorter man's face, the noticeable slump in his posture. A tiny smirk crosses Bloody Nose's lips. "Will you be all right?"

"Yeah, it's just… stupid," Black Eye sighs, suggesting the explanation for a bruised eye is cumbersome and tiring by a mere glance.

And it is. Bloody Nose, with his thick blue scarf around his neck and a head full of unruly, black hair, softly pipes, "I would assume just as much." His mouth continues to be covered by the, now ruined, tissue. Despite the mess, Black Eye can still make out the fast-food chain's logo printed onto the fabric. He can also tell the napkin is extremely rough; Bloody Nose's lips and nose are raw, the pores open and slight facial hair noticeable.

Black Eye's laugh is quiet, mostly just a huff of breath and a shake of the shoulders. "Sorry I couldn't… y'know."

"It's adequate," Bloody Nose answers, drawing away the napkin. The features of his pale face scrunch up, and Black Eye thinks of a small animal from the Mustelidae family. "I would have given you one of the same quality."

"Frequent them much, then, yeah?"

"When I have the time."

"Which is always."

"Always."

A taxi passes them. Neither tries to hail it. "Look at us bonding over… used napkins." Black Eye handles the lapels of his jacket, tugging at the strings. The hood shrinks, but he doesn't appear to notice. A breeze licks his blond hair. He hasn't showered in two weeks. "Did, did you get beat up, too?" asks Black Eye, tilting back his head to look at the other, much taller man. Black Eye has to squint his eyes to stare properly. The bruising around them makes it very uncomfortable.

"No." Bloody Nose pockets the tissue. It rests against his painfully-expensive leather gloves. "The cocaine I snorted was of very low quality."

A second taxi drives by the two. Bloody Nose watches it. Black Eye blinks. "Oh, well, of course. Why wasn't that my first guess, that you were a partier?"

Bloody Nose pauses at the use of vocabulary. "Because, I am presuming, you were beaten to the point of your current injury, and you had wished I had gone through a similar trial as you. People like finding common… interests among others. While it's rather sad, I understand." A sneeze, and Black Eye manages to produce another napkin from his jacket. He shoves it toward Bloody Nose, their fingers briefly catching on each other's in a sick moment of passing blood. Black Eye shakes his hand, the crimson liquid landing on their feet like rain.

"I guess that sounds right," Black Eye says, furthering the conversation. "I mean, yeah, I was beat up, but it was because I didn't have enough money to pay my dealer. Said I would give them the remainder when I could, but they still popped me one." Black Eye bounces on his heels. It is rather cold.

"Dealer?" An eyebrow rising, Bloody Nose is interested in the smaller man now. When he pulls the napkin from his nose, a string of pink leaves his nostrils. They both stare.

"Yeah, dealer."

"Marijuana?"

"Occasionally, but my preference is adderall."

The dark circles under his one good eye give Black Eye more years than what is revealed by his confession. Teenagers and young adults are more likely to abuse the stimulant. And while he would be surprised for the second time that night if he were proven wrong, Bloody Nose does believe the young man standing to his left is a university student than a scrappy kid in sixth form. "Finals week?"

"Finals week… if you would like to think finals week is every week." Black Eye's loud squeak is a weak excuse for a laugh, and Bloody Nose is embarrassed to be on the same street as him. "I know that wasn't funny," he informs Bloody Nose, who nods and agrees with a hum in his throat.

A third cab approaches their street corner, and Bloody Nose throws up a hand. It inches toward them. "Well, I would say this has been an interesting conversation, but then I would be lying." He drops the new and, again, ruined tissue into his coat pocket.

Black Eye frowns, but he doesn't argue. "What's your name?" Bloody Nose wraps his scarf tighter around his neck in response. "Maybe we'll see each other again sometime," the man with greasy, blond hair adds, his feet and hands rubbing the pavement and his arms respectively.

The cab halts in front of them. As he's thinking he isn't going to get any other word from the tall man with the black hair and rude attitude, the damp point of an ink pen presses to the back of Black Eye's hand. The ink shouldn't be working—the temperature is much too cold—but a set of eleven numbers appears. "The name's Sherlock Holmes." The deep voice crawls into his ear and makes quiet residence. "Maybe we can party sometime," Bloody Nose murmurs, his tone clearly mocking, as he removes the pen from Black Eye's skin.

The handwriting is legible, and Black Eye has to be careful in order to keep the ink intact. "Party, yeah." He nods, a smile cracking his dry lips. "Well, uh." Raising his head, Black Eye notices the cab driving away, and his heart sinks. "John Watson," he says to the dark sky above and the cold air around him.

With unwashed hair, a thin jacket, a drop of blood on his old boots, and an irritating black eye, John Watson coddles the written-on hand and attempts to find his way home.

* * *

It had started when John was ten years old.

Like many ten year olds his age, John was susceptible to playing with his friends until it was dark, neglecting to wear proper outerwear, and sharing straws when they had milkshakes (which was often). And, like many ten year olds his age, John was introduced to cold medicine.

It tasted horrible, and the generic stuff on the bottom shelf at the pharmacy never did anything to stop his nose from leaking fluids it should not be leaking. His mother, a kind and persistent woman, shoved the medication down his throat whenever she could. Despite the constant ingestion, John never got better as fast as neither of them would have liked.

So, his mother stepped up, bought the name-brand stuff.

And John got better. And it was good.

He never thought it was strange to crave the bitter taste of the medicine against his tongue, figured it was something he just _enjoyed_, like how his father drank alcohol as if it were water, or like how his sister continued to kiss girls after their parents had said it was wrong. John thought it was commonplace to drink the cold medicine, take a sip before he went to bed, a swig whenever he was stressed (as stressed as a child could be), and his mother never seemed to notice the bottle turning up empty a few days after purchasing it.

Eventually, his mother stopped supplying. It took a while, however.

Before, John would have to faux illness, and it was tiring. He was still a kid, wanted to play outside with his friends, but his mother kept him in the house if he were sick. He sat in on sunny days and watched from the window, having to keep rubbing his eyes and nose red from the cold he was faking.

He slipped, told himself the medication would always be welcome in the bathroom cabinet.

And John got better. And it was bad.

"You're growing up so fast," his mother cooed one afternoon, arms balancing a plate of freshly-made chocolate-chip cookies. "I haven't seen you wipe your nose on your sleeve in ages!" She passed a cookie to her son, a sweet smile on her face. "Looks like we won't need that cold medicine for a while, will we?"

John was furious. He crumbled the cookie in his hands, the chocolate staining his fingertips.

A day passed, and he was fine.

A week later, and he had the shakes.

Two weeks came along, and John was arrested for the first time—shoplifting, assaulting a police officer. He was only eleven years old.

* * *

It's sleeting outside, promises of hail in the forecast for the upcoming weekend. John has his blond hair stashed under a hat, his neck wrapped with a threadbare scarf, and his feet covered with three pairs of socks and his old boots with the drop of blood on the toe. John is staring at the stain as he's waiting in line, a scrap of notepad paper crumbled and smashed into his fist. Pen is on the page—a list of the ideal breakfast for his mates. John has a headache, and he wishes he hadn't been the one to get up first this morning—only wanted to take a few painkillers with a drink of leftover alcohol from last night. Being quiet hadn't gotten him anywhere, had still gotten himself caught on the ankle by a hungry stranger's hand on his way to the bathroom. "McDonald's," they had requested, and the remainder of floor-occupants agreed with grunts.

Now, John is in the queue of the fast-food joint, completely void of paracetamol and eyes ready to slide shut. The watch on his wrist tells him it's nearing five in the morning, and the couple at the table to his right points out it's starting to hail. Moving forward in line and shoving the makeshift grocery list in his jacket pocket, John decides to stay for a while, eat for himself, to hell with the others. It isn't his house; he isn't going back.

He orders big, pays with his friends' dirty coins and wrinkled quids with no plans to refund them. It hails for quite some time. He sits and listens to the golf ball-sized chunks of ice fall against the roof, watches as they leave dents in the bonnets of the cars in the parking lot. It's reminiscent of childhood—getting knocked in the biceps and calves by baseballs thrown by his friends or sister. It was mostly his sister. She had a great arm and a mean temper.

The door opens more frequently. People enter and don't depart. They crowd the entry, and John despises them all. Suits and umbrellas complain loudly about the weather. "Did you know it was going to _hail_?" a man with a big nose exclaims to anyone who would listen to him. He has a terrible comb over, needs a wig, seems like the type to get his clothes dry cleaned.

"Who knew it was going to hail? I sure didn't!" John hears Terrible Comb Over's voice from his table in the back. It's exhausting, booming. A hand comes to his temple, and he scratches his blond eyebrow.

"Nobody cares about your inability to check the godforsaken weather." It's a sound from the heavens. Terrible Comb Over is brought to a puddle of silence. John sits up straighter, almost that of a toddler trying to peek over a counter. The angelic voice is familiar, and when John sees the mess of black curls pushing their way toward the front of the queue and demanding for a "bloody bagel", a smile grows across John's face.

Like any person having seen an acquaintance in public, John stands from his table, throws up a hand to try to draw attention, but he only gets the pleasure of having an elderly woman shoot daggers between bites of her muffin. John tries again, this time walking. Of course he doesn't try to be quiet about it, doesn't act like he's on a secret mission; his boots are squeaking horribly, and it is extremely silent in the restaurant after the spat that had occurred at the entrance. He moves through the queue, cutting customers and getting yelled by teenagers and shoved into children, and John thinks this is too much trouble to get to the hostile man at the front.

Despite his constant string of "no, I'm not ordering" and "excuse me", John is still manhandled. Someone grabs hold of his scarf, and they violently yank it as if he were a horse. He only gets irritated. "Okay, let go," he says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "I said 'excuse me', what more could you possibly want?"

But the woman who has grabbed his scarf doesn't let go, instead pulls again, and John has to resort to making a very embarrassing noise and participating in a game of tug-of-war, which only ends with the woman letting go (what a loser) and having John fall back into someone. His head hits their shoulder blade before he falls to the floor; and it's in that moment, when he's lying on the sticky tile, he decides he's a fool and should probably sit down and take a nap or, at least, go outside and get bombarded with hail.

A shadow casts over him. He doesn't have the strength to look up to see who it is. He expects to be kicked, potentially by the person he had fallen into, but a hand comes into view, not a foot. The hand is colored with black leather, and John knows that leather. He's seen it before. It's _leather_, though, so he could be mistaken. He doesn't touch it, and only then does he get jabbed in the side with a pointy toe of a shoe. "Take my hand," says a deep voice.

There's a piece of gum dangerously close to John's nose. "What?" he says.

John's lost count of how many times he's been grabbed this morning. The man above him tugs on his arm, then settles on digging his fingers into the collar of his jacket and fiercely pulling him to his feet. "For God's sake, you're humiliating me."

"Sherlock," John pants, struggling to get control of his balance. A hand presses to his back.

"Please stop talking."

They're sitting at John's table now. Sherlock appears small in his large coat with a bagel in one hand and a coffee in the other, but that could be the numerous food wrappings distorting the image. "Hungry, were you?"

John shrugs. "I had the money."

"This place isn't that expensive."

"Okay, I was hungry." John takes each yellow and white paper, stacking them on top of each other. He turns the trash into a makeshift place mat, and John doesn't understand why he's trying to tidy up for Sherlock. "Why are you here?" John asks.

"I was hungry."

"Ah, right." John drums his fingers on the table top.

Sherlock takes a big bite from his bagel. "I see your black eye has almost healed." He speaks with his mouth full. "Got any other injuries, or can I safely assume you have paid your dealer the correct amount since I last saw you?"

John stares at him.

"You know"—Sherlock takes a drink of coffee—"because you didn't have enough money last time, and you just told me you had money, so either you're an idiot and wasted what little money you had on a snack wrap or a sausage roll, or you actually took responsibility in your wrongdoings and paid." His eyes are the bluest blue John has ever seen. "Which is it?"

John takes a while to respond. The hail outside is dying down. "I'm an idiot."

Sherlock smiles. "That's fantastic."

"And I'll have you know," John says, leaning in on his elbows and narrowing his eyes at Sherlock, "I actually had hash browns and eggs and several, several biscuits. Meat doesn't really agree with my stomach."

Sherlock's left eyebrow rises. There's a freckle right above it that John has a sudden impulse to bite. "Vegetarian?"

"God, no. I love burgers." At that remark, Sherlock's other eyebrow goes up, and John's own brows furrow. "What? Do you not like burgers?"

"No, no," Sherlock mumbles, tearing what is left of his bagel in two. Slowly, he slides one half toward John. "I'm always down for a good burger." He removes his hand, returns to his portion of the toasted bread.

John watches him, leans back in the booth. "Is that your way of giving me… permission to ask you to join me for a burger… or something?" John presses his lips together in confusion, a small bout of amusement. The bagel near John is still warm, and Sherlock's smile is timid.

"No, that's incredibly dull. I would never do that."

* * *

After their morning classes, they have lunch at a fifties diner. Sherlock eats John's pickles, and John pretends to be a walrus when he discovers two long chips in his basket.

Their laughter is obnoxious, and it gets them kicked out of the restaurant.

On their way back to the university's campus, Sherlock suggests they skip class.

John offers to go to his dorm. "I have some stuff," he says, head itching beneath his wool cap. "You like stuff, don't you?"

Sherlock likes stuff.

They don't leave John's dorm until the sun rises on Sunday morning.

"Go to church with me," John breathes into his pillow, as Sherlock rolls off the bed.

They sit in the church piers with clasped hands and red eyes. Sherlock jokes about his skin sizzling, and John drops some notes in the collection tin.

Later that day, Sherlock realizes he's down fifty pounds.

_Very Christian-like. SH_

_Thank you. JW_

* * *

John puts off coursework. He hasn't been in contact with his friends or professors, only gets the occasional call from his sister.

He's forgotten to eat some days, doesn't attempt to leave his room. The bed is starting to smell like piss and drool, and John buys air fresheners whenever he gets the motivation to do something.

His mouth is often dry, and he doesn't remember the last time he's had a shower.

But there's always Sherlock, and John couldn't be happier for that.

* * *

John's dorm is for smoking and popping pills. Sherlock's is for injecting and snorting.

Sherlock has never smoked marijuana before meeting John. "I've never seen the appeal," tells Sherlock. "It just gets you hungry."

John smiles behind his rolling paper.

Sherlock has the first joint. John watches him come undone, watches Sherlock unbutton his shirt more than halfway and stand in a corner to count the tiny cracks in the paint. "You're so… extraordinary," John remarks, as he produces his own joint.

"Thank you." Sherlock's voice is nasally.

Marijuana makes John relax, forces all negativity to leave his fingertips and perch on the windowsill. He puts socks on his hands to prevent it from coming back.

Sherlock stabs the wall. "I need to eat three eggs right now. Shell and all. I don't care."

* * *

John has never tried methamphetamine before meeting Sherlock. "Do you know what type of effects it has on your body?" John wraps his arms around his stomach and frowns. "Your teeth fall out. You pick at your skin."

"I'm fine, aren't I?" Sherlock's eyebrow rises. The freckle above it is hidden behind the unwashed curly hair on Sherlock's forehead.

"I can take cocaine," John says quietly. "And heroin. Not… not _that_."

Sherlock has a line of meth setting on his desk, atop his laptop. He glances at it. "I can prepare some coke for you," he suggests, "so I don't have to be the only one getting high."

They lie on Sherlock's bed, feet hanging off the edge and laughing about monsters who like to eat toes.

* * *

Monday morning, rain beating against the window, Sherlock's arm heavy against John's back, a mobile phone rings. The tone is indescribable. John knows it's causing him a headache. He thinks it's his phone. Sherlock isn't moving beside him.

A second phone rings—Sherlock's. John's lips bleed when he tries to open his mouth. His phone starts ringing again.

"Sherl'," John slurs, palming the side of Sherlock's face. "Phone 'all."

Sherlock squirms.

Removing himself from Sherlock is so hard, and John is weak. He has to pretend he's crawling from a tight space—a cave, he's in a cave, and the walls are collapsing. The phone is his way out, his rescue. John's face meets carpet, but his hands grab onto the mobile device, so he wins—he survives.

"Hullo," he says.

"John."

His world turns into a block of ice. A rocket is on his arse. Sherlock manages to get to his own phone and answer it with an equally-tired voice, but even then, John notices Sherlock's posture changing—becoming stiffer, more serious. "Hi, Mummy," he says.

In return, John answers, "Hey, Dad."

They're in the headmaster's office. Sherlock's family goes first. They leave with stern looks and a sobbing son. John goes next. They leave with disappointed looks and a sobbing mother.

Later that night, John and Sherlock are sitting on the dormitory's roof. Cigarettes are in their hands, and Sherlock is still crying. "Academic probation?" John inquiries.

"Yes," Sherlock says, voice shaking. "They cleaned out my room." A hand comes up to wipe away fresh tears from his eyes. His cheeks are rubbed raw.

"They cleaned my room, too," John agrees, watching red ashes fly from the tip of his cigarette. "Why are you crying?"

"I don't know."

They get milkshakes after. They share straws.

* * *

John doesn't see Sherlock for three days. He supposes he's getting back into the grove of going to his classes again, doing homework, writing essays.

His sister texts him on Friday. It's discouraging. _I bet you're going to get trashed this weekend._ She's probably right, but John has no pocket change, and he can't afford asking his dealer for something and promising them he's going to pay it later.

John invites Sherlock to his dorm. "I don't have anything," he says, opening the door and seeing hopeful eyes and eager hands.

They sit on the floor. Sherlock's wearing a university t-shirt and sweatpants. John has on a cable-knit jumper and shorts. They both have clean hair and no body odor.

"What have you done this week?" John asks—anything to break the awkward silence in the bedroom. They can have fun with small talk and withdrawal symptoms. They aren't just friends with drug benefits.

"Homework." Sherlock sticks a finger in his hair and scratches. "I can't believe I forgot how dull this was."

"I fell asleep during a lecture today."

"No wonder you look well-rested."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment. I actually want to strangle you right now."

John smiles. "Please do."

They get out John's textbooks, laugh at the pictures.

"Do you have any scissors?" Sherlock tilts his gaze toward John, who begins to dig through the drawers of his desk. He retrieves a pair, handing them to Sherlock. "Have any books you don't use?"

"This one's from last semester." John slides over a book with a broken spine. It's for mathematics. He won't miss it.

They cut snowflakes, little men. Sherlock teaches John how to fold paper cranes. They fall asleep among a flock.

* * *

Their weekend is spent studying for upcoming exams and doctoring paper cuts. They don't get much studying done, their attention more focused on the nicks on their hands than their grades.

John only has two band-aids in the first-aid kit under his bed, and Sherlock complains. "How do I continue without hurting?" he asks, pale fingers waving. John sees three scrapes on Sherlock's middle finger. John wants to kiss the wounds.

"You don't," John sighs, rummaging through the contents of the white box. "You just… have to."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I don't have time for your attempts at being poetically cynical."

"I'm usually an optimist." John finds cotton balls. He stares at them.

"Times are changing," Sherlock mumbles. John finds surgical tape next. Sherlock doesn't stop John from tearing apart bits of cotton and wrapping each of their fingertips with the makeshift bandaging, merely watches with a smile on his face as John sits beside Sherlock on the bed with his hands up in the _don't touch me, I'm sterile_ position.

"This will be hell getting off," John states, and Sherlock silently agrees.

Sunday evening, when John walks Sherlock back to his dorm, they hold hands, but the weather is so cold, and their hands are so bandaged they hardly notice.

* * *

They don't see each other until next Friday. They spend the weekend at Sherlock's dorm this time, too drained to talk, too confused to ask why they're cuddling underneath the blankets.

* * *

_Christmas. SH_

_Few weeks away, yes. Let's focus on getting to winter break first. JW_

_I want you to meet my family. SH_

* * *

On the first day of winter break, Sherlock and John compose a bonfire of their textbooks in John's backyard. In the dead of night, they set it ablaze, and Sherlock teaches John how to dance to the rhythm of paper burning.

On the second day of winter break, Sherlock and John loiter at a coffee shop. They sit in the back, and Sherlock dissects each customer, and John wonders how someone like Sherlock could possibly exist. Sherlock catches John staring, and John blushes, and Sherlock smiles and tells John it's okay, that he stares, too, when John isn't looking.

On the third day of winter break, they don't see each other. Sherlock texts John how his brother is insufferable, and John replies with how he found a pill bottle when he was cleaning his room. He promises he won't take any, puts it back where he found it. John falls asleep with the shakes.

On the fourth day of winter break, Sherlock finds needles in his room. "I think I'm going insane," he tells John over the phone that evening. "It was in the telly. And don't ask me why I was looking in there."

On the fifth day of winter break, Sherlock and John meet up and have burgers. John orders extra pickles just for the sake of feeding them to Sherlock. Sherlock licks John's fingers with wide eyes and wet lips, and John thinks about dirty slush on the side of the road.

On the sixth day of winter break, Sherlock and John have milkshakes. "They're your favorite," Sherlock says, and doesn't mind John sharing his straw. And he especially doesn't mind when John leaves a string of saliva on the edge of the plastic. It snows that evening, and they both shiver from something other than the cold.

On the seventh day of winter break, Sherlock and John send and receive the same text. _I think I'm about to relapse._ They wait until they're both in John's bedroom to do it together—Sherlock injecting the telly-morphine and John taking the floorboard-adderall. They are finally at peace for once in their life.

* * *

It's hard, but John manages to smuggle a bong into his bedroom. The one he had when he was younger is broken and sitting in his closet, and he wants Sherlock to have the full effect when he tries smoking from a bong for the first time.

_I just need the pot now. JW_

_John, I'm trying to read about unsuccessful decapitations. SH_

John gets in contact with his dealer. They're happy to supply John with what he needs (as are all dealers), but when they meet up at the park to exchange goods, John more or less breaks it to them he doesn't have enough money on hand, and he's not sure when he'll be able to pay them back. "I don't have a job. My parents won't just give me money."

Despite this, they tell John not to worry, to pay back when he can. They pass over the ounce. "Do you want the usual stuff, too?" they ask, hands going into big coat pockets.

"U-usual stuff?" John blinks. From inside their pockets, John's dealer shakes a pill bottle, and John has a Pavlovian response. "Yes."

_How're the decapitations? JW_

_Not nearly as interesting as my brother eyeing all the food my mother is cooking. SH_

_Do you have time to party? JW_

_Boring. SH_

Sherlock appears at John's window a quarter after midnight. John's hands are desperate, and his palms are sweaty as he helps Sherlock into his room. "Eager?" Sherlock says as greeting. They leave the window open.

"Yes." John doesn't feel like lying.

They sit across from each other. They take the pills first. Adderall doesn't affect them nearly as much as it used to. They use it as a base, as a foundation for their activities.

Next, the bong.

Sherlock chokes a lot. John laughs often. In their impaired state, they go into the kitchen and make two pots of macaroni and cheese, one for each of them. They try to be quiet, but John's sister finds John standing on a counter and Sherlock rolling on the floor. She's rubbing her eyes, yawning loudly, and doesn't really pay them any attention. She heads toward the refrigerator.

"Sherlock lost his contact," John says.

"I lost my contact," Sherlock says.

She gets a juice box and sips on it. "Remember to wash the dishes when you're done."

And then, she leaves.

Sherlock hits John with a spoon. "You need to be quiet."

John flicks Sherlock on the nose. "You were the one crawling on the floor like a baby."

With their pots of macaroni, back to John's room they go. They take another hit from the bong, and Sherlock passes out with a pillow over his head, and John calls him an idiot and steals his food. "More for me."

* * *

Sherlock wakes up incredibly grumpy. It's four in the morning, and John's parents are still asleep, so they try to be quiet. They usually aren't successful in this endeavor, but they're being extra careful. John locks the bathroom door behind them.

"Paracetamol?" John opens the medicine cabinet. Sherlock shrugs on his coat and nods. He's wincing now, as if his muscles are sore. John doesn't blame him; he had slept in an odd position—head tucked under the pillow, arms bent between his knees, knees up to his chin. "I didn't know you were flexible," John says, giving the pills to Sherlock. "Have to drink from the faucet." John steps away from the sink.

Sherlock takes the pain killers before speaking. "I'm not flexible, that's the problem." Smirking, Sherlock wipes the back of his hand across his mouth, collecting the water still gathered there. "Did you eat my mac 'n' cheese?"

"Uh, yes." John smiles. "You fell asleep."

Sherlock snorts, eyes rolling. "Typical."

Sherlock leaves through John's window. John's fingers linger on the lapels of Sherlock's coat far longer than is necessary.

* * *

_Christmas. SH_

_Not that long now, yeah. JW_

_I want you to meet my family. SH_

* * *

John meets Sherlock's family on Christmas Eve. John's seen them before, when Sherlock's and John's families were called into the headmaster's office, and John had thought they were lovely people—maybe a bit strict, but lovely all the same.

John is hugged by Sherlock's mother when he enters the residence. "So, you're the one who's the terrible influence on my boy." Her tone is teasing, but the ice in her eyes freeze John solid.

"Haha, yep," John says, and if he wasn't treading lightly, he is now.

Sherlock's father, on the other hand, does not give John mixed signals. He only smiles, shakes John's hand. He's wearing a bow tie, and John decides he likes Sherlock's father very much.

The older Holmes brother isn't home at the time of John's visit. "He's always watching," Sherlock says darkly, then sticks his finger in John's eye.

Sherlock's bedroom is messy, very like his dorm room back at university. John doesn't feel safe sitting on the bed. It's lumpy under the covers. "Not to be rude, but it kind of smells in here."

Sherlock sniffs. "You get used to it." He waves his hand. "Now come here. Let me show you how to get inside the telly. I have some stuff."

John stays for dinner. He and Sherlock are nonchalant, their faces powdered down with makeup, particularly around their eyes. "Don't make fun of me," Sherlock had said, digging out the makeup bag from his closet.

"Never."

If Sherlock's parents can tell they're under the influence, they don't say a word.

* * *

John has no interest in his parents meeting Sherlock. "You've heard them snoring in their sleep. Isn't that enough?"

Apparently, it isn't.

First impressions are everything, and when John's parents had first seen Sherlock, he had snot hanging from his nose and tears streaming from his eyes. Sherlock tells John he wants to erase that, but John doesn't think that's very likely. "Your mum remembered me. What makes you think my folks won't remember you?"

Sherlock's eyes say "alcoholism and domestic abuse", but his lips say "you're right, John".

Sherlock shows up on John's doorstep three days after Christmas. He has flowers in hand, a box of chocolates in the other, and John stares at his parents in disbelief as they coo over Sherlock and eat up his gifts and manners.

"You are such a brown nose," John whispers.

Sherlock's arm grazes John's shoulder. "I brought you something, too. No need to be jealous."

It's drugs—of course it's drugs. Sherlock has loaded his coat with marijuana, pill bottles, even methamphetamine. John eyes the contraband, lips pursing together, brows furrowed. "I don't know." He's sighing, and Sherlock is sighing, too.

"We don't have to."

It's still early. They have the whole night ahead of them.

"Maybe later," John says.

* * *

They're on John's bed. John's nose is caked with blood. His hair is also blue. Sherlock has half a pizza lying by his head, and his fingertips are teal.

John doesn't want to face the day, because he thinks it's Sunday, and his parents will want the family to go to church. They'll invite Sherlock along.

Slowly, John sets his head back to his pillow, closing his eyes. He shakes, and it isn't long before Sherlock has his arms wrapped around John. "I'm here," Sherlock says, voice gravelly and no doubt hoarse.

"I know." John's fingers curl around the sleeves of Sherlock's shirt. "I know."

It isn't Sunday. They sleep until noon.

* * *

John's parents aren't thrilled about John's hair. His mother looks like she's suckling a lemon. His father is shooting daggers. "Ya sure about that?"

John shifts his weight from leg to leg, passes his house key from hand to hand. "Sherlock likes it."

"Wash it out," his mother says, lips pressing together after the words leave her mouth. She turns her back to John.

John's sister is quiet from the sofa. When John passes her on his way out, she mumbles, "It looks badass," and John smiles and says, "Yeah."

* * *

John's hair eventually turns green, but Sherlock still likes it. "The color of this bottle," he states, shaking said bottle and spilling liquor on the sidewalk. "Oops!"

They're drunk, out of cigarettes. John's responsibility is getting them smokes. "Because, Sherlock," he sighs, rolling his eyes. "You look about twelve."

"Fuck you." Sherlock's speech is only slurred when he wants it to be. His movements, however, are very uncoordinated. They sit on the steps of an apartment complex. None of the flats have on their lights. "Sleeping," Sherlock says, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"But it's New Year's Eve," John retorts. "They're probably just out."

Sherlock points a finger and spills more liquor. "True."

Their countdown is a little shaky. They don't know it's happening until the other couples start and are already on four.

Midnight strikes, and it begins to snow, and fireworks go off, and Sherlock tosses the empty bottle at someone's feet, and John kisses Sherlock, and it's wet, and John pulls Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock gets his hands down John's pants, and Sherlock is actually crying, and John doesn't remember the last time he's kissed someone, and Sherlock vomits in John's mouth, and John is laughing, and John rubs Sherlock's back as carefully as he can, and Sherlock sits up with glossy eyes and slimy lips, and they're kissing again; and they're kissing, kissing, kissing.

* * *

They're hung over and sleeping by a streetlight when Sherlock's brother finds them. He's wearing a three-piece suit and a displeased expression. A black car is behind him. "Do you two mind?" His tone matches his facial features.

John wants to bark, and Sherlock wants to bite, but they're sore, tired, cold. They don't argue, only think it wise to pile into the car and be quiet. It's warm inside. The Holmes' cottage is much warmer.

The brothers get into a fight upon entering.

"I don't want to pick you off the side of the street again," the elder says, voice steady. The younger sibling is violent, and John can only watch. "Who knows what state you'll be in next time."

Sherlock's teeth show as he grimaces, a hand rising and striking his brother's cheek. "We don't need your _help_, Mycroft." And Sherlock has the other against the table, holding his head against the wood, increasing pressure with each strained word leaving his chapped lips. "Don't interfere with us. We—are—fine."

It is at this moment the parents choose to arrive. Sherlock is quick to pull Mycroft from the table, even going as far as to fix his clothing—straightening his tie and fixing his collar. Sherlock's actions read guilt, but his eyes are dark.

They eat breakfast together. John munches on bacon and eyes the red-hot hand print on Mycroft's cheek. Mycroft seems undisturbed, and John, himself, feels the guilt Sherlock chooses not to feel. John can only wonder if Sherlock acts like this toward his brother when John isn't around to witness it.

John excuses himself to regurgitate.

* * *

They have cigarettes today. They're smoking in John's bathroom. The window to their left is open, and the wind blowing into the room is more than a little chilly. John is wearing an old sweatshirt and jeans. Sherlock is in the same attire, albeit a bit cleaner looking. He's trying to fix John's hair, making it blue again. Sherlock's wearing gloves this time and grunting more than usual. "You're hopeless."

"You're the one talking." John taps the end of his cigarette into the nearby ashtray. "Any progress?"

"How about pink?"

John shakes his head. "Not my color."

"Not mine either." Sherlock bends down, and John puts the cigarette to Sherlock's lips. The drag he takes is dramatically long, and John calls him an idiot. Sherlock chooses to not reply in favor of keeping the inhale inside his lungs. On the exhale, Sherlock says, "We need a plan."

John bounces the cigarette off his bottom lip. "Yes," he agrees. "Wait, what?"

Sherlock declares John's hair a hopeless cause and tosses his gloves into the trash bin. "You aren't honestly expecting to go back to university when break is over, do you?"

And John realizes he hadn't expected to go back. It has never occurred to him until now, sitting in his bathroom with bad hair, that he doesn't want to continue with his education. He finds it rather stupid. All he wants to do is spend time with Sherlock, but John doesn't know if that's a good decision.

John gives Sherlock the cigarette, then stands, going over to the sink to wash out the dye. "We'll talk about this later."

Sherlock blows a smoke ring toward the window.

* * *

Sherlock's bed, as always, doesn't look habitable. "Get this cleaned out," John says as greeting.

Sherlock doesn't raise his head, too preoccupied on getting the lines of methamphetamine straight on his desk. "Mm, good evening to you, too."

John eyes the white lines, frowns. "I don't want to take that again."

"Who says it's for you?" Sherlock counters. In one swift motion, his back still facing John, Sherlock tosses a pill bottle toward John. The contents rattle, and John sees the label is scratched off upon catching.

"I can't just take this."

"You're very picky, aren't you?" Sherlock teases. "Don't worry, I have cold medicine." John freezes, Sherlock spins in his chair. "You like cold medicine, don't you?" he asks, curious of the ice now plaguing John's face.

"Uh, yeah. Yes. Just haven't had it in a while."

Sherlock smiles, turns back in his chair.

John clears his throat. "But, as I was saying: you need to clean your bed."

"What for?" Sherlock drawls.

"Well, if we're going to stop attending university, I would assume we would move out of our respective households and reside in a flat together." Sherlock's posture straightens, but he doesn't turn around to face John, so John continues, "I wouldn't imagine my parents being supportive of my dropping out. They'd probably kick me out anyway. I was just thinking, we'd… live together." John's thumb runs along the sticky residue of the pill bottle. He wonders whose prescription it was prior. "And if we live together, we have to share a bed. And seeing how I can hardly stand the sight of your bed here, I thought, maybe, you'd… I don't know—"

"Yes, okay."

John raises his head, brows furrowing. "Hm?"

Sherlock doesn't respond verbally. He stands, abandoning the crystal on his desk and going over to his bed. He pauses for a brief moment, as if to collect himself, prepare for what's underneath his covers. John starts to think Sherlock hasn't slept in his own bed for quite some time, and John isn't sure what to make of that.

"We might need to be under the influence to do this," Sherlock says finally. And John smiles and laughs and agrees.

And together, they each take their drugs of choice and set to cleaning Sherlock's bed, which isn't nearly as awful as John had thought it would be. Underneath the blankets are a flattened box of dead mice ("Experiment."), some medical textbooks ("I do other things in my free time, you know."), and an old teddy bear missing an arm ("Don't touch that.").

Of course, John touches it. "Are you serious? What happened to its arm, babe?"

"I said not to touch it!" Sherlock says defensively, taking the stuffed animal from John's hold and casually tossing the toy under his bed, as if John can't see the hurt behind the cloudy edge to his eyes.

"What's its name?" John presses, taking hold of the books and seeing where he could stick them on the bookshelf in the corner. Nowhere, they won't fit. John makes them. He hears some paperbacks bend and tear, but a glance over his shoulder assures him Sherlock isn't paying attention.

"Shut up." Sherlock marches from the room with the box of dead mice. John wants to ask where he's going, why he's leaving the room obviously high, but Sherlock is already halfway down the hall, and John chooses to get on his knees and dig up the old teddy bear again. He realizes, along with the arm, it's missing an eye. The other eye is just a small black bead, so John supposes the missing part probably popped off in its old age. John gives the bear a sniff.

"What did I tell you?" Sherlock stomps over to John, taking the toy once more. "Shut the door for me." Sherlock sits on the bed.

"Where'd ya put the dead things?" John joins Sherlock after he's shut the door. The mattress is comfortable.

"Mycroft's room. He won't notice."

"Until it starts to smell."

"They already smelled. You never noticed." Sherlock holds the bear in between two hands. He's surprisingly steady despite the drugs in his system. John needs to fix that. He goes over to the desk to grab the bottle of cold medicine. A swig for him, the bitter taste clinging to his throat, and then a drink from Sherlock, who barely registers the taste. "So." Sherlock smacks his lips. John takes another gulp from the bottle. "We're going to live together."

"Ah, well." John sets the bottle back on the desk, staring at the traces of Sherlock's activities staining the lid of his laptop. John clears his throat, two coughs. "We need to get a flat first."

"I have money," Sherlock says without hesitation. "My parents are very generous."

"At least one of ours is." John picks up the bottle again, finishing it.

* * *

When term resumes, Sherlock and John go flat shopping. They find a cheap one, but it's in a bad neighborhood. "We have to start somewhere," John says, and he's bleeding so much optimism Sherlock rolls his eyes until he gets a headache.

* * *

They end up getting it.

* * *

John says goodbye to his parents and sister with rage and shouts and resentment.

Sherlock says goodbye to his parents and brother with silence and stares and disappointment.

* * *

The first night in their new flat is awkward. They've slept together in the same bed before, but they've always been high or hung over, too out of it to acknowledge each other.

Now, with their queen-size mattress on the floor and John's blanket from home stretched over them, it's like they don't know how to act in bed. Side by side, they're lying. Their breaths are even, calm, cautious—desperate to touch, too scared to do anything about it.

"I think we need to set some kind of ground rules," Sherlock says in the darkness. The streetlights outside peer into their bare windows. A police siren is heard.

"Okay, go." John stares at the ceiling. There's a crack in the plaster.

"If there's a spider, you have to capture it. You have to capture it, and let it out. Don't even think about killing it."

John thinks Sherlock is kidding, but when he looks over at him, he knows Sherlock is being serious. His eyes are wide, frightened of whatever metaphorical spider is crawling in the deepest parts of his brain. John nods, grabs Sherlock's hand. "I promise."

* * *

John would consider their beginning weeks at the flat as domestic bliss.

They're always high, always happy, always kissing. They haven't had sloppy sex yet, but John thinks it's only a matter of time before they wake up naked with no reconciliation of what happened the night prior.

Sherlock gets texts from his brother, which he often ignores in favor of spending time with John, even though John knows Sherlock would rather argue with his sibling. He has a look in his eyes—most likely irritation.

"What is he saying this time?" John asks from the sofa. Sherlock joins him on the piece of furniture. The cushions are squishy, and it smells musky. They bought it second hand, probably shouldn't have.

"'Come home, brother mine, or face the consequences.'" Sherlock stares at John.

"'Consequences'?" John says the word like it's a punch line to a joke.

Sherlock nods his head, shrugging. "No idea. He does love to be dramatic. We need a television."

* * *

They buy a television that evening. And a DVD player. And several films. Sherlock pays for it with his card. He always enters in his PIN number with a smug smile on his face, as if to say _look at me, look at me supporting my boyfriend and myself_.

"We need food," John points out. "And a few more pillows." He pauses. "Curtains, a hoover. Milk."

"What else?" Sherlock's eyes are bright. He's running on adrenaline, nostrils flaring and eyebrows arching.

John gets a contact high. "Lubricant. Condoms."

* * *

They have sex that night. Their purchases are in the sitting room, only the items necessary for safe sex make it to their required place, but, even then, they're tossed around the room. The lubricant is by the top of the bed. The box of condoms has spilled and makes a trail from the door to the bed. They'll laugh about it in the morning. Right now, they're ripping a hole in John's blanket, breaking in the mattress. Sherlock is clawing a masterpiece into John's back, and John is biting a hole in Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock is spent, too fucked to move then they're finished. John cleans up Sherlock, hands gentle against his sweaty body. Sherlock groans, gestures toward the ceiling fan. John turns it on, leaves the room for a moment. He returns with the new pillows they've bought, and he tosses one at Sherlock's head before curling under the covers with him.

They lie there, on their sides, facing each other. Sherlock is tired, but he's fighting sleep. John taps his nose. "Go to bed."

"Can't."

"Why not?"

"You might be gone when I wake." Sherlock's shoulder is bleeding onto the mattress.

John laughs, short, in disbelief. "Unlikely."

* * *

Arguments with Sherlock are draining. They don't fight a lot, but when they do, they _fight_.

Tonight, it's over John's clothes. This fight isn't a _fight, fight_, but it's still a fight that leaves John feeling helpless and very annoyed.

"Let me buy you a new jacket."

John's fingertips are bleeding, and he doesn't know how to work a needle and thread that well. "No," he grunts. He's perfectly fine with sewing patches onto the thin jacket. He's found some that matches the color of the fabric, although he's sure someone can tell there's something off about it. John doesn't care. He punches the thread back in. His elbows can't be poking through, can't be left defenseless against the winter air.

"Where did you learn to sew?" Sherlock's voice is quiet. Maybe he thinks he's on thin ice.

"My dad," John answers. He pokes his fingertip with the needle again. "Leave me alone." Blood drops onto the jacket's sleeve.

"Let me buy you—"

"_No_."

* * *

They go out shopping the following day. John doesn't want to, but he can't help if he falls in love with a coat on the rack. Brown, wool trim—it looks warm. "This one."

Sherlock pays for it.

But the machine can't accept his card.

"Looks like it's been cancelled, sir," the cashier answers in a squeaky voice. Sherlock throws a fit, and John has to remind him it's not the young lady's fault. It's nobody's fault, and can they please go home now.

They sit on the squishy sofa cushions. Sherlock's on one end, and John is on the other. He's back to sewing patches onto his jacket. His fingertips never stop bleeding.

He's bitter. "Shouldn't have even let you persuade me into going out." He acts like he's embarrassed for the fuss in the store. Sherlock is silent, watching John. John needs several bandages. "Is this what Mycroft meant by 'consequences'?" he asks, eyes rising to stare at Sherlock. He drives a needle right through the top layer of skin on his middle finger.

"Mycroft," Sherlock snarls.

* * *

It isn't until they run out of food and drugs when they realize _yeah, we have no money_.

John writes a list. "Priorities," he says, scribing the word in the margin of the piece of paper. His pen runs out of ink, and John shakes it a few times. It works after fifteen shakes. "What's our top priority?" He puts down a little number one.

Sherlock considers this a trick question. "Food?" he answers cautiously.

John waves a finger. "Yes, food. Food is necessary to survive, yes. But. How do we get food?" John writes "food" on the number two spot.

Sherlock looks at the paper. "Well, money. We need a source of income. So." He takes the paper from John, and John watches him write. When he's finished, Sherlock slides the list over to John, and John leans in to read it.

_Priorities_

_1\. Job  
2\. Money  
3\. Food  
4\. Drugs  
5\. Sex_

John raises an eyebrow. Sherlock shrugs.

* * *

They need a source of income. The source of income will give them money, and money will entail them food and their choice of narcotics, and then they'll be so happy and so relieved they'll have sex. It seems plausible enough. The only problem would be their inability to get hired for a job.

John had been studying to be a doctor, but after dropping out, he doesn't think he'll be able to get anywhere in the field of medicine.

"I don't like people," Sherlock says as his excuse.

So, customer service is out of the question for Sherlock, at least. John can be a waiter. They make shit money, though, and there's no guarantee he'll be able to get tips on his personality alone.

John chews on his nail. Sherlock joins him in bed. "Sex," he says, and John closes his eyes.

"Not tonight, Sherlock. We haven't even got money or food, and sex is—"

"No."

John opens his eyes, looks at Sherlock. "What?"

Sherlock resembles someone who's about to be struck in the head with a heavy object—a hammer, a frying pan. "No. I mean. Sex. There's always sex."

And John lowers the metaphorical heavy object. "Oh."

* * *

Prostitution. Sherlock means prostitution.

* * *

Sherlock works on Tuesdays and Fridays. John works on Mondays and Thursdays. They leave the grocery shopping and free time to Wednesdays, and they don't go out on Sundays. They spend it in bed, on the sofa, in the bathtub; mending cuts and scrapes, hiding bruises, kissing and hugging each other.

They wait until the other comes home before even thinking about going to bed. They don't touch when they sleep, lying side by side, like they had when they first moved in together. Their bedroom smells like body odor and marijuana. They are good at what they do, but not the best. They make enough to pay the rent, to purchase their drugs of fancy, to get take-away every night.

They don't like it.

John comes home one morning with broken fingers. "I wasn't letting him hold me down like that."

Sherlock thinks he might have caught _something_. "I saw him put on a condom. I don't know what happened. I saw him. I saw him."

John's fingers mend, and Sherlock's infection is cured.

They aren't happy.

* * *

On a Wednesday, during an afternoon smoke session, they decide they want tattoos. They think it's a brilliant idea. So, they go to a tattoo parlor, get inked on their left-hand ring fingers. It doesn't hurt.

John gets a crescent moon; Sherlock, a sun.

* * *

They need to stop.

"I'm so sore," John mumbles to his reflection. His hair is an awful, dull seaweed color. He needs to bleach it over, do something with it.

"Me, too." Sherlock walks into the bathroom. John hadn't realized Sherlock was standing there. He's startled, but doesn't flinch, doesn't jump. He's desensitized. "We should stop."

"And do what?" John replies, grimacing. "We don't have _anything_ going for us, Sherlock. We don't have _anything_." He rubs his eyes. "I'm tired."

Sherlock hugs John. "Me, too."

* * *

They do stop. In spite of their current financial situation, they fuel their addictions with what's left of their earnings. Sherlock is manipulative, and John overdoses on methamphetamine.

During his five-day stay at the hospital, their landlord evicts them, and Sherlock gets a call from his brother. "He said he'll help us," Sherlock says, taking a seat next to John's bed.

John feels weak, grimy. His heart rate is normal. "What did you tell him?"

Sherlock takes John's hand, repeats, "He said he'll help us," and doesn't say anything else on the matter.

John's head hurts, and he's sick to his stomach. They have nowhere to go. He misses his parents. He needs a shower. The hospital blanket rubs his eyes raw. "I want to go home."

Sherlock stands, leaves the room. "I need a cigarette."

* * *

John is released. "Where are we going?" he asks Sherlock, hands in his pockets and feeling like utter shit.

"No clue," drawls Sherlock.

They walk.

* * *

They sleep on a street corner that night. At least it isn't snowing. The street lamps are nice to lie beneath, and John's arms are warm around Sherlock's shivering body. John sings him a lullaby, rubs his tattoo, but they don't manage to sleep.

In the morning, with little coins in their possession, they have a breakfast of sausage rolls and coffee. Inside the restaurant is comforting, and John wants to stay until they get kicked out for loitering.

Sherlock chews on his lips. "Mycroft texted me."

"Your phone is still alive?" John laughs, takes a sip of coffee. "Mine died a long time ago." He looks out the window. "In a land far, far away."

"Tonight. He's getting us tonight."

John blinks. "Where is he taking us?"

Sherlock tears apart a napkin.

* * *

The cold air gives Sherlock a nose bleed. John pulls all the contents from his jacket and pushes them to Sherlock's nose—gloves, tissues, paper, whatever he can get touch. Sherlock nudges away John's hands. "I can hold it."

John yanks on the drawstrings of his jacket, shrinking the hood. The wool cap atop his head prevents anyone seeing his mess of hair. Sherlock's own curls are tangled, and he's threatened each strand he's going to cut them soon. John doesn't think he's serious. Sherlock's all about vanity.

When Sherlock's nose stops bleeding, they share a cigarette. Each puff gives John an inkling of reassurance. "I'm excited." He smiles. "Aren't you?"

Sherlock stays silent, sucks on the cigarette.

John talks for the both of them. "I'm really looking forward to this. This will be good for us. We'll be okay."

A black car approaches.

Sherlock watches. John takes the last drag from the cigarette. "We'll be happy."

It begins to hail.


End file.
